


Icy Feathers but Warm Hearts

by Gix



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: Dadza, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hybrid AU, Hybrid Philza, Hybrid Technoblade, M/M, Non-canon complicit, One Shot, Other, Wings, hybrid quackity, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28121283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gix/pseuds/Gix
Summary: After a long time running around alone, Quackity gains some new roommates.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Dave | Technoblade, Alexis | Quackity & Phil Watson, Alexis | Quackity/Dave | Technoblade, Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson
Comments: 87
Kudos: 1260
Collections: QNB_DISCORD_FICS





	1. Sweet

Harsh breaths form mist in front of his eyes, clouding his vision further. His legs burn from the strain of running through the thick snow, but he has to keep going. He knows that if he stops, he may not get up again.

Laughter echoes behind him once again, but it sounds closer. He needs to go faster.

His bare feet are already swelling with blisters as they scrape on hidden rocks and twigs in the snow. He nearly cries out as he trips again, slamming into a tree, but he holds himself back.

The laughter is definitely closer.

One of the kids chasing him is mere feet away, if they turned slightly left, they’d spot him for sure.

“Make sure to kill the fucker! Can’t have ‘em terrorizing the town no more!”

The kid next to him nods as their buddies catch up. He holds his breath as he pushes against the tree. He really, really wishes he’d sucked it up and payed for an invisibility potion before he left.

He squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to quell the near-blinding pain in his skull. One of his hunters had gotten him over the head with a bat or something earlier, and he’s pretty sure he has a concussion. When he opens his eyes again, a grimy grin is staring at him. He’s been caught.

He shrieks as the chase starts again, willing his knees not to collapse as he pushes off the tree. He’s lucky they hadn’t injured his ears, because he hears the water before he passes it completely.

Water would be safe for him, it was unlikely that the kids would follow him and get muck and ice in their clothes. He dashed towards the sound of the stream.

Apparently, luck is not on his side whatsoever today.

He quickly makes his way to the sound, pushing through a bush, harsh thorns scratching his skin and bloodying him further, and then he’s falling. He’s falling into what must be a ravine.

He spreads his wings as he falls. The one thing he can be thankful for about his hybrid nature is his ability for flight.

His wings shift his body too far though, and one of them strikes a jagged rock sprouting from the cliff face. He’s on his back suddenly and he can’t flip himself over. One of his wings won’t respond to his muscles, limp at his side. The other flaps uselessly, and then he’s hitting the ground with a sickening crack.

  
  


His breath won’t come for a horrific moment. He gapes at the sky and writhes on the ground. Then his breath is back. He raises his hands to his head to cover his eyes. His wings won’t move, no matter how much he tries to move the muscles.

He knows they’re broken. He doesn’t have to raise his head and see the blood and feathers around his body to know.

Honestly, they’re probably what kept him from dying. The snap must’ve been them breaking his fall. He’s lucky to be alive.

It doesn’t feel that way.

The laughing is back. He knows they’re looking down at him as they chuckle. He doesn’t want to see them, he doesn’t want to know what they think as they look down to his broken body.

Hopefully they’d assume he’s dead.

Hybrids aren’t well-liked on this planet.

People have said from the beginning of mankind that hybrids are lesser. Oftentimes they’re considered closer to mobs, mindless creatures who roam the night. Even scientists often spread the idea that hybrids are half-mob, and have less brain function then regular humans. It’s an untrue, but a sadly echoed sentiment among humans.

This caused a sort of gap between the twotypes. They’re not even separate species, technically. But people are still treated like mobs for simple differences from “regular humans”.

People with smaller traits often hide them. They’ll wear thick coats to cover wings and tails, hoods and hats for ears and small horns, some hybrids even use makeup to cover scales and inky skin. Others are unlucky, and can’t cover their traits. Those people are considered the scum of society. Many live far from the rich cities of Dream SMP and L’manburg, instead moving to so-called “slum towns” were they live meal to meal and treat everyday as the last. Many would die there, if they didn’t die to some violent villagers lusting for mob blood.

Quackity had lived in those slums most of his life.

Both of his parents were unlucky ones, born with traits that immediately marked them as hybrids. Quackity was born with wings, soft, yellow feathers trailing up his back and onto the long bones that form them. He can’t get much airtime with them because they aren’t very big. Even at his current age of 19 his wings aren’t fully grown and his feathers are still slightly downy.

His parents celebrated when they saw that his hybridism didn’t spread to his face. They taught him to hide his wings as often as possible, and to cover his ears. He doesn’t have human ears, they’re just holes like a normal birds. So he grew up wearing a beanie and thick coats to cover his traits. They did their best to send him to school in the larger city nearby, and he walked several miles everyday to go there. His parents pushed him to do his best in school, get educated, and have a better life then them.

The moment he turned 16 they forced him to leave. He didn’t deserve the slums, they said. They pushed him away.

Quackity hated the city. He had to hide his wings everyday, wear thick clothes even in summer. Some other hybrids had noticed him, but none actually spoke to him regularly. He made some friends at work, sort of. It was good for a while. He was lonely, but he was learning new things and meeting different people. The slums were his home, but they weren’t the nicest place to live.

Yet, “good” things never last.

He vividly remembers his heart dropping when his co-worker tugged his hat off. His hair was long, though. It could’ve been covered up, he could’ve continued to live peacefully, if not for the second man, who bumped into his back, and immediately told everyone that he felt something there.

His boss found out pretty quickly, and demanded an examination, or he’d be fired. Quackity resigned instead, which only confirmed there suspicions. So, he ran.

He ran from that stupid, bigoted city, and went anywhere else.

He couldn’t go back to the slums where his disappointed parents would cry over his failure.

He couldn’t stand to live in a new city, waiting for the same thing to happen.

Instead, he moved from village to village, avoiding the people while making a living. He trades with the locals and tries to be polite. No one bothers him, usually.

This time was different. Some stupid kid bumped into him and felt his wings. They’re about his age, standing a little taller then him.

“Hey birdy, what are you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be eating seed?”

Ugh.

It’s not even original, just some stupid jab. He pretends the group doesn’t exist, taking the shit he grabbed to the counter as fast as he could. He hadn’t been able to get all he wanted, but he needed to leave. He considered grabbing a potion, but the high prices had him cringing away. Those stupid teens had already left the store after he hadn’t responded, anyway. They wouldn’t do anything.

That’s what he thought as he left town, getting ready to set up a tent for the night before heading to the next area.

He was wrong. They’d found him as he was setting up, spat a few half-baked insults. He tried to ignore them, he truly did, until one of them pulled out a fucking knife.

“I’ll cut those wings off for ya,” the kid couldn’t be older then 17, but that cruel smile seemed infinitely hateful. “Then you’ll be normal, right birdy?”

No threat is taken as a joke. The moment the kid took a step forward, weird squad moving with him, Quackity was sprinting. He refused to die in that moment.

Well, now look at him.

Crippled, probably dying in the bottom of a ravine. A small river flows a few feet from his head, and he curses it as creatively as he can. If he hadn’t heard water, if he hadn’t followed that noise, his wings wouldn’t be fucking broken.

Each breath he takes comes with a slight wheeze, and he can’t tell if it’s because he also broke a rib or if his throat is just parched. Maybe it’s both. 

He whimpers, _literally fucking whimpers_ , when he attempts to sit up. God, he’s never felt more pathetic.

The voices above him have faded at this point, probably back to town. He’s never going back there again.

He shivers harshly as something cold hits his face. It’s takes a second for him to realize it’s snow.

_Of course._

His body hurts so badly, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna puke if he even manages to sit up. He can’t make his body move, though, so instead he lays there, bleeding as the snow starts falling heavily. A blizzard must be coming.

“What a way to go, Quackity! You’ve really outdone yourself this time!”

He shouts at the uncaring sky, voice too hoarse to really be heard by anyone but himself. He glares at the edge of the stupid fucking cliff.

“Yeah, fuck you pal. I’m gonna fuckin die while being buried in fuckin snow! I guess I get a burial, at least. Privilege!”

His voice rasps, throat basically begging him to stop, but he continues to shout at the top of his lungs. If he’s gonna die, he’s at least going to go out screaming.Acid burns in his throat after a few minutes, and this time he does turn his head as he barfs. He doesn’t know why he even bothers, some stupid survival instinct. That, and dying of hypothermia actually sounds a lot better then choking on your leftovers. He shudders as more snow hits him. His body heat melts them and now he’s wet _and_ fucking freezing.

His body shakes violently without his permission. Each time he tries to stop the shaking, which is only irritating his wounds further, it comes back tenfold. Hot tears run down his face, and they feel like boiling water against his ice cold skin. He sobs, ignoring the way his wing flares with pain as he curls up on his side. He wraps his arms around himself.

Then, he finally waits for death.

Phil doesn’t know what he was expecting when he heard a group of kids proudly advertising they’re “Demon Killers” who’d just killed their first “demon” as he rode into town.

Maybe they hunted mobs as a group, which honestly, would be great. Golems are slow, especially in winter, and the villages often loose people to mobs regularly. It’d be great if they finally decided to fight back.

His wings are tucked close to his body, hidden under his traveling cloak. He knows that his roommate won’t be happy that he went to town alone, but Phil’s been pretending for decades. He knows how to appear human, talk like one.

Phil leaves the horse he’d ridden at the town gates. It’s a smart horse, knows not to wander off. He makes another trade with the shopkeeper, who grunts on approval as he hands over a couple potions and some leather. Phil plans to make a new saddle for his friend, who often complained about his being uncomfortable and small. Having ridden the horse himself, he agrees.

As he leaves the shop, he passes those kids again.

“Yeah, we left ‘em at the bottom of a ravine. Stupid half-mob won’t be coming back!”

He pauses.

“Half-mob” is often used to demean and dehumanize hybrids who’s traits can’t be hidden. It’s never used for actual mobs or their spawn.

_A ravine? Huh._

He leave the town, rushing to a thick cluster of trees before tugging off his cloak. He stuffs it into his bag, spreads his wings, and takes flight.

He doubts anyone in town would notice, but he has no interest in ever going back there anyway.

Phil searches everywhere around the village. A snowstorm is coming, based on the weather, so he needs to be quick. He’d be lucky if snow hadn’t already covered the ravine.

He lands to take a breather, stretching his wings out. He leans against a tree as he pants heavily.

_Why am I even doing this? Poor thing’s probably already already._

That’s when he hears it.

A quiet and broken-sounding voice, screaming. It’s so hoarse it makes his own throat ache with empathy. He rushes to lift off again, this time staying closer to the ground so he can still hear the shouting. It takes few minutes of wandering, during which the voice got softer, sometimes completely stopping before starting again. He panics every time the voice stops, scared that he’d taken too long. Yet, it always started back up, shouting inaudible curses to the air.

Phil finds the ravine.

The voice had stopped again a couple minutes ago, and he’s worried again. He looks down the deep ravine and scans the bottom. He flies lower, about halfway down, before he spots the hybrid.

The person is curled on their side, unmoving as snow forms little piles on top of them. Blood and feathers spread around them like a blanket. They’re wings look like they’re still developing, little plums of downy feathers scattered around them. Phil drops down quickly and riches to their side. The kids clothes are covered in blood which oozes from wounds on their back and head. But they’re breathing. _They’re breathing._

He knows how this usually ends. Hybrids go “missing” all the time, bodies usually never found because while it is illegal to kill them, you can’t prove anything if nothings found. Some hybrids will even fake their own deaths to avoid a real one, run off into mountains and forests to live the rest of their days in solitude.

Phil lifts the person into his arms. They’re worryingly light, most likely starved. Their wings don’t twitch or curl as a normal hybrids would, and he realizes with horror that they’re probably broken. He moves the kid onto his belly and fishes rope out of his bag. It’s makeshift and weak, but would stop the wings from getting in his way or worse, getting hurt even further. He binds them to the persons torso, then lifts them onto his back. He uses the remaining rope to tie the person to him, making sure his joints aren’t blocked. He spreads his wings and stretches.

Then, Phil is off, carrying the heavy load up, up and landing on the edge of the cliff.

He’s really, really grateful that he brought his roommates horse with him. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to fly all the way back with the kid. He whistles, and the horse rushes over, whinnying as it gets closer. He pulls himself and the limp body up. Phil reaches up and checks that the other is still alive. Thankfully, while his breaths are shallow, they’re there, a steady rhythm keeping the person alive.

He rides home with the person still tied to his back. Pausing to check they’re alive every few miles. The blizzard hides them from prying townsfolk, and he counts their blessings as they make it home.

Getting the person to his house and actually saving him are two different tasks altogether.

The persons shirt is caked with blood, and he ends up having to cut it off in order to access all the wounds. They groan painfully whenever he shifts them, and he cringes away at the noises. He hates seeing people in pain.

Their wings have taken the brunt of the impact. Several of the delicate bones in their wings have snapped, that’s not surprising after a fall at that height. He can’t fully heal them with a mending potion, but he can bind the wings where they broke. He bandages the broken parts and pours his most potent brews over them. It’ll take time to heal, and the kid probably won’t fly again, but at least they’ll keep their wings.

He also checks out their head, which was bleeding lightly. Those wounds aren’t that bad, just a mild concussion from bumping their head, so he wraps the wound without using another potion. Phil looks at the beanie the person was wearing, soaked with blood. None of their clothes would be salvageable.

His clothes would be too big to even stay up on the skinny persons body, so he goes to his roommate instead. He steals a sweater and the smallest pair of pants the man owns, then makes his way back to the kid downstairs. They’ve curled up again, shifting unconsciously towards the heat that the hearth gives off.

Phil adds another log to the fire, just for them. He slips the person into fresh clothes and lets them lay on the couch. He sighs as he finished, finally allowing himself to relax.

He doesn’t sleep in his own bed that night, instead sitting in the armchair next to the couch. He refuses to let something bad happen to his patient while he’s not watching.

The next few days go by slowly.

He learns that the kids name is Quackity during his few moments of clarity. Quackity doesn’t ask where he is or why, simply accepts the food and drink Phil gives him before falling back into restless sleep. He complains about the pain a lot, but thanks Phil everytime he wakes up anyway. He’s a sweet kid, nineteen years old and living all alone for years. He laughs a lot, jokes around. He’s still quite delirious, clearly not understanding what’s happening, but he’s healing.

It’s around a week later when he _actually_ wakes up.

Quackity jolts the moment Phil walks in, stares at him with wide eyes. Phil just smiles back at the scared boy, making sure to shift his wings slightly from behind his back. The teen relaxes slightly, but he’s still wary. Immediately this dumbass attempts to push out of the bed, literally yelping as the pain in his wings flare up.

Phil is at his side within a moment, pushing him back into place and pinning his wings as Quackity desperately tries to flap them.

“Fuckin stop, mate! You’re gonna hurt ‘em more!”

Quackity tries to twist his head to see as Phil pushes him back against the pillows. The man rushes to the kitchen and grabs a bowl of soup. Maybe now the teen would finally eat a full serving.

“What happened to my wings? What the fuck is happening?”

The panicked man shrieks as Phil walks back in.

“Calm down, please. Do ya remember anythin?”

Quackity stares at the bowl in his hands instead of answering. He’d assumed the dude would be hungry. He set it in his lap, watching as he dug in.

“I-“ He swallows heavily, “I remember being down a fuckin pit, dead.”

Phil chuckles. He sits down now that Quackity has stopped making moves to get up.

“Well, ya ain’t dead yet.”

“Might as well be. You should’ve left me. Waste of resources, an all that.”

Phil frowns. Sure, it was an “every man for himself” type of world, but the teen said it so casually. Like his life didn’t matter in the slightest. For now, though, he had to focus on making sure he was feeling better.

“Does your head hurt?”

Quackity shakes his head, but it’s a little to quick. He groans as his head throbs with pain. Okay, maybe his head hurts a bit.

“What’s your name, old man?”

Phil glares slightly. ( _I’m not that old..._ ) He tells the kid his name nonetheless, and moves closer to look at his head. Quackity backs up slightly as he approaches, slightly fearful.

“Jus’ checking your head, mate. No need to worry.”

“Sorry if I’m a bit suspicious of a random stranger who picked me off the street when I was most vulnerable.”

Phil snorts. He unwraps the wound in Quackitys head. It’s still a bit swollen where he’d been hit, but at least it’s not bleeding anymore. He re-wraps it with fresh bandages, then moves to his wings. Quackity jolts as Phil runs a hand down the places where it had been broken, making sure it’s setting properly.

“Sorry.”

Quackity shakes his head.

“Nah, they just hurt a bit.”

  
That’s a lie, they hurt a lot. Every twitch in his wings sends fierce shots of pain through his bones, but he wouldn’t tell Phil that.

Phil finishes his exam after a few minutes, and sits back down in the arm chair. Quackity fidgets beside him, staring into his bowl, at Phil, then back again.

“What?”

“I just-um.”

The teen looks nervous again. His hands shake in his lap, and he stares at the floor as he speaks, meek and quiet.

“Will I be able to fly? After this, ever?”

Phil studies him. He’s scared, obviously. It’s not impossible for him to fly again, maybe, someday. It’s extremely unlikely, but still possible. He doesn’t want to lie to the kid, though.

“Probably not.”

Quackity sighs. He’d guessed as much, but it still hurts. The one thing he loved about being hybrid, about having those stupid fucking wings in the first place, was the ability to fly. Something warm slides down his cheek, and he realizes it’s tears. Phil’s looking at him with a startled expression, and Quackity tries to hold them back, tries desperately not to cry in front of this man he’d just met, but he fails. A choked sob escapes him.

But Phil doesn’t tell him off, doesn’t get upset. Instead, the man just awkwardly pats his back, a soft rumble of comfort coming from his chest.

Quackity lets himself cry as the older man attempts to calm him.

He’s emotionally and physically exhausted by the time he’s done, and Phil brings him a glass of water. He smiles gently and thanks the other hybrid.

Quackity tries to leave, because he feels like a nuisance. Yet, everytime he pushes himself out of bed and towards the door, Phil is there, telling him he doesn’t have to leave yet, that he’s still healing. Everytime, Quackity allows himself to be guided back to the couch, even if he feels guilty about it.

He likes it here. The house is simple and cozy, and hidden. He likes the fact that the house is deep in the icy landscape, far enough that no wandering villagers could accidentally stumble in, but close enough to a town to get trading supplies every now and then. Phil tells him that he’d been pretty far from the house so that he could find some new materials that aren’t often found near this house, and that’s when he found Quackity. He feels bad for interrupting the others search, but Phil just laughs, telling him it wasn’t on a time limit, and he’d probably go out again in a couple months.

He stays for half a month before Phil sits down next to him. The man hands Quackity a mug of hot cocoa, and stares at him as he drinks. Quackity flushes.

“What? _What_? Is there something on my face?”

Phil chuckles, continuing to watch him as they drink together. The fire crackles pleasantly.

“Quackity, you should just stay here.”

Phil hums as he takes another sip. Quackity stares at him blankly.

“Aren’t I already...?”

“No. I mean, like, permanently. Roommates.”

Quackity gapes at him.

“I-what? No-no I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t wanna...no.”

“It’s up to you, mate. I just-it’s pretty lonely, bein’ a hybrid an’ all. Thought being together would be better then goin it alone.”

Quackity nods slowly. It makes sense, but why him? He barely even counts as a hybrid now, with his wings rendered useless. He’d just be a free-loader. He’d probably be dead within a month if he left, so why even try?

“You think on it. You won’t be able to leave for another month at least, anyway. Gotta get those wings all healed up.”

Quackity nods as Phil walks away, watching his wings curl against his back.

He’s still living with Phil a month later.

Phil, as promised, has left to find whatever he’d been searching for, now that Quackity can ( _somewhat_ ) take care of himself.

Quackity still sleeps on the couch, but neither of them really mind. Phil had let him cook in the kitchen a few times and-despite ending in disaster-trusts him to cook for himself without burning the house down.

Now would be the best time for Quackity to leave, really. Everytime he steps out the door, though, he can’t. He looks at Carl, the horse that lives out front. He’s a gentle giant of sorts. He whinys softly when Quackity feeds him, and even allows the man to pet his snout.

He can’t leave Carl, right?

That’s the excuse he gives himself. Philza is relying on him to feed Carl, so he can’t leave. It’s not that he _wants_ to stay.

So, he stays.

He sleeps and eats and cleans and feeds Carl, falling into routine. It’s nice, even though it’s cold. He hasn’t touched the dirty bandages on his wings once. It scares him, the thought of what he might see. Crooked bones and torn feathers, impossible to use. He knows, deep down, that he won’t be flying ever again. He stays up sometimes, flexing his wings and shaking them out, watching the useless things shake with effort the unused muscles need to move them.

One of those nights is the fifth day after Philza left.

He stares at the fire as he opens and closes his wings. The fire is starting to falter as it runs out of fuel, but he can’t bring himself to move right now. It’s snowing outside and the chill is seeping into the house slightly. A half-eaten bowl of rice and meat sits on the table next to him. He’s not hungry.

A loud thump comes from behind the house.

Quackity tenses. Mobs don’t usually come to these parts, but the ones who do are usually more aggressive. He doesn’t think he can handle a fight right now.

Another thud comes, this time next to the front of the house.

_Next to Carl._

Quackity is moving before he fully processes what he’s doing. He slams open the door and rushes towards the stalls-

Only to slam into someone.

The person lets out a low grunt as they bump into eachother. Quackity looks up, coming face to face with tusks and cold eyes. The person looks pissed off.

They look at eachother for a moment, both seeming to take it in. The person is like, a foot taller then him. Quackity rushes back to the door, fuck Carl, Carl can handle himself. He slams it shut and rushes to the kitchen, searching for a knife, a fork, anything to defend himself.

The door creaks open and he listens to the heavy sigh the intruder lets out. They seem...annoyed? Unbothered?

Heavy footsteps fall behind him and he turns around, spoon in hand, and ends up with a sword to his neck.

The man is a hybrid, some sort of pig or boar. Two tusks peek slightly from his lips, and ears sit on top of his head. Long, pink hair falls into a loose braid that runs over his shoulder and down to his waist. His eyes are dark brown, nearly black in the dim lights. He’s wearing a warm-looking cloak that has a regal blue and red pattern along it’s length. If he weren’t fucking horrified, Quackity would find the man handsome.

The boar scowls at him as the silence presses on, and once it becomes clear that Quackity isn’t going to talk, he growls lowly.

“Why are you in my house?”

Quackity squawks as the blade presses closer, shoving himself further against the wall and wincing as his wing nerves light with pain.

“Your house?! This is Philzas house buddy, I don’t know where you are!”

Had Philza actually been squatting in this house, and left him to take the blame? Had he been betrayed?

Fuck, this is why he doesn’t trust nobody.

The person in front of him pauses for a moment, then the blade is gone. He slides it into the sheath fully. Quackity gapes as the man immediately looses all the tense and dangerous energy, instead heading to the cabinet and grabbing an apple.

“H-hey! What are you-“

“Sh’up”

The man grunts at him, grabbing another apple and a piece of bread. He then walks over to the latter Phil climbs to get to his room, and lifts the floorboard nearby.

_Okay, I didn’t know that was there._

The man slides down the new entrance, glancing a Quackity for a moment before he fully disappears.

“Clean your wings, dumbass.”

And he’s gone, floorboard put back into place.

Quackity, for once, is rendered speechless. He stares at the floorboards, awestruck, because _what the fuck just happened,_ then glances at his wings.

They are pretty dirty but he doesn’t even know how to clean them. He had always just assumed they didn’t need cleaning. Philzas wings always look pristine, though, so maybe he is supposed to clean them.

“But how the fuck do I do that?!”

He groans into the empty room, marching to the couch and sitting there.

He tries to distract himself, but he can’t get the feeling of grim off his skin now that he’s noticed it. He tries to read, but the words look all blurry, and he’s never had the best attention span.

He finally gives up on distraction, instead pulling himself up and yanking on the bandages. It hurts like a fucking knife wound, but he gets them all off. He doesn’t want to look. He tries not to. But he can’t clean his wings without seeing them.

Finally, he looks at where the bandages once covered.

It’s...not that bad, actually.

Little feathers sprout from his skin, and no bones or blood stick out from there. It just looks like someone had shaved some patches off his wings. It’s ugly, sure, but he doesn’t have a horrible, grotesque bone stabbing out in the wrong direction like he’d been half-expecting.

He sets about cleaning his wings, though he doesn’t really know how. He’d read that there’s some sort of glands or something in wings? He doesn’t know if that carries over to hybrids though...

Does he need water? Or soap? Would that irritate his skin? The nerves and skin on his wings are extra sensitive. He’s gotten rashes from his wing hitting a tree wrong before. It’s now that he really wishes Phil was back. Phil would definitely know how to clean wings.

He roughly grabs one of them, deciding to just bite the bullet. His wings are sore and sensitive, and he hisses in pain. How does anyone clean their wings when it fucking hurts?!

He starts by trying to straighten out his feathers. They’re all going in different directions, some are even broken from him laying weird. Is he supposed to pluck broken feathers? Eh, probably not. Sounds painful.

The key word here is that he’s “trying.” It doesn’t work. Every movement he makes hurts like hell, and he makes little to no progress in the twenty minutes he sits there for. He groans in exasperation, just deciding to give up. He lays back down on his side, he’s too exhausted to deal with this. He can just ask Phil when the other bird hybrid gets back.

“Hah? Do you not know how or s’mthing?”

_Oh great, the weird prick is back._

“No, asshole, I do. I just don’t feel like it, shut up.”

The man, having poked his head up from the floorboards and now staring at him, snorts.

“Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you rage quit.”

“I didn’t fucking rage quit!”

“Looks like you did, though.”

“You know what, asshole-“

Quackity shoves himself back to a sitting position. He whips his wings in front of him and pulls at and plumes he can reach with his fist aggressively. Tears rise in his eyes as he does so, because _fuck does that hurt._ A hand grabs his own and tugs it away from his poor feathers.

“Stop, you idiot! God, who did Phil let in?”

The boar pins his wrists against his chest as he pets Quackity’s wings, smoothing out the feathers he’d grabbed at. Quackity bites his wrists, but the man doesn’t let go.

“Ow.”

His voice is monotone as he glares down at Quackity. He glares right back, refusing to be intimidated by the man. All he gets in response is a chuckle.

“You’re an idiot. What kind of dumbass plucks their own wings?”

He glances at his wings, then back to the person pinning his wrists. Yeah, he may have lost a few feathers, but he wouldn’t call it “plucking” exactly.

They stare at eachother, neither giving up an ounce of their pride to end the petty contest. The hybrid in front of him eventually sighs though, letting go of his wrists. He walks away, leaving the confused bird on the couch, and goes up Philzas latter. A minute or two later, he’s back, walking towards Quackity like some spooked dog.

“What are you doing, asshole?”

“Is that like the only insult you know or something?”

He glares back at the offensive man, who sighs.

“Look, I jus wanna help. I know how to, promise.”

It takes Quackity a few seconds to catch on. The man is holding wing oil.

“I-what? Wait-No!! No, I don’t even know you!”

“Technoblade. Pleasure. Now, just let me clean your wings before they stink the whole place up.”

Quackity squawks in offense.

“They do not stink! And you solved nothing, you’re still a complete stranger!”

“Look, dude, if you don’t want to, that’s up to you. But I know Philza, and I know how to clean wings, and yours look dirty as hell.”

“You know Phil?”

“Uh, yeah? Why else would I be in the house- wait were you just gonna let some random person who walked in live here?”

Quackity flushes slightly.

“In my defense, you’re pretty intimidating.”

“Thanks.”

Standstill. Again. He stares at Techno, who stares right back. He thinks about his options.

He does know Phil, and any cleaning would be better then nothing, but...

But those tusks look pretty strong, and he doesn’t feel like being bit or anything, on the other hand he doubts the man would have to bite him to hurt Quackity...

“Er, sure. Fuck it.”

He doesn’t have anything to loose, anyway. He should really be dead already, it’s a miracle he’s still going. If he gets killed, he gets killed, right?

Techno nods at him, then walks to the couch. Quackity still tenses as the other gets closer, ready to dodge an attack, but Techno just sits next to him. Then the boar nudges his shoulder so his back faces him, and tells him to spread his wings.

Quackity complies, squeezing his eyes shut as he waits for the pain that comes with grooming ones wings.

It never comes.

Instead, Techno takes the oil he’d stolen from Phil’s room and spreads it over the long arches of Quackity’s wings. He rubs it into the small upper feathers around his spine and upper wing, oddly gentle. Quackity nearly melts as the other works literal magic, sighing as he’s massaged. Techno threads his fingers through his feathers, pushing them back into place and pulling little bits of twigs and leaves that he’d picked up. ( _how did he even manage that?_ )

A low and pleasant rumble vibrates Quackity, and it takes a minute to realize it’s coming from himself. Techno continues to gently push feathers back into place and rub his sore wings. They go lax, slipping from their tense position until they’re nearly laid out on Techno’s lap.

“Inhale.”

Quackity does. A little tug comes from his back, and the moment is broken.

“Ow! Man, what the fuck!”

The boar hybrid lifts a snapped feather to his face.

“Gotta get these out, or they’ll get infected. Inhale.”

“No, dude that _hurts_ -“

“It’ll hurt even more when it gets infected. Inhale.”

Quackity does.

The painful process continues for a few minutes, then the touch becomes gentle again, soothing the places he’d plucked.

“Good job. Nearly done.”

Quackity nearly whines at those words. He doesn’t want the gentle touches to stop. It’s relaxing, he’s so close to the first good sleep he’d had in months, if not years, at this point.

Techno hums softly as he continues to spread oil over the feathers. The wings have relaxed again, and it makes them a lot more accessible.

Quackity flexes his wings instinctive as the knots that had built in his joints come undone. That low rumble in his chest has gotten louder, and he pushes his back into the kind hands behind him.

Technoblade finishes his work after nearly an hour. Quackity’s wings aren’t particularly big, only taking up around half his height, but they were very, very messy. How the man ever managed to even spread his wings without horrible pain is a mystery to Techno.

He watches as the bird hybrid spreads his wings to their full length and literally squeaks with joy. He flaps them a few times, and his arms mimic the movement slightly, waving up and down.

It’s kind of...cute.

Techno chuckles as the excited teen turns back to him, eyes alight.

“You can thank me now, ya know.”

What he isn’t expecting is to be nearly toppled over by the running hug Quackity gives him. He barely keeps them upright, stabling himself against the wall as he’s. squeezed tightly.

Techno isn’t really used to that much affection. He awkwardly pats Quackity’s head as the other continues to hug him.

_Hasn’t this gone on too long? I feel like hugs shouldn’t be this long. Maybe he’s just confused? Is this even a hug?_

Quackity pulls back and grins at him.

“Thanks, Techno!”

“Ah-er, yeah. ‘Welcome.”

The bird rushes around the room, flexing and flapping his wings. Techno chuckles slightly. Okay, yeah, that’s definitely adorable.

Once the man has settled down, he sits on the couch and pays the space next to him. Techno gives him a quizzical look.

“Common! Sit down, tell me about yourself. Tell me about Phil! I mean, I know Phil, and he’s cool and stuff but I don’t really _know_ know Phil, ya know?”

Techno nods dumbly ( _No, he doesn’t know. He has no idea, in fact.)_ but sits down anyway. The younger hybrid talks for hours, Techno occasionally joining in. It’s odd, having someone so different yet oddly the same as him in the house. Phil is great, but he’s more a position of power. Quackity, well. Quackity already feels like a friend. They talk for a while, and slowly, they scoot closer.

Techno is the one to initiate first contact, surprisingly. He awkwardly reaches up and pushes Quackity’s head into his shoulder, hoping the other gets the message. Thankfully, he does. He laughs a little as they readjust so that Techno leans on the armrest and Quackity lays on his shoulder. It’s comfortable, much warmer then it had the right to be.

Quackity gets drowsy pretty quickly after that. He continues mumbling about whatever come to mind as he drifts to sleep.

Techno panics once he realizes Quackity fell asleep on him. What is he supposed to do? Should he move? Should he get a blanket and make sure the bird is warm? But he looks so comfortable...

He settles for wrapping an arm loosely around the other, squeezing slightly when he mumbles something in his sleep and curls closer.

Of course Phil has to come home the one night Techno decides to be sweet.

A knowing grin passes over the older mans face once he opens the door. Techno wants to run away or punch him, but he doesn’t want to wake Quackity up. The grin only grows.

“Sweet, ain’t he?”

Techno nods silently.


	2. Sweeter

His new housemates are surprisingly gentle, despite their appearances.

Phil is strong, intelligent, always analyzing. His black wings are broad, spanning the entire room length if he spreads them. He’ll wrap Quackity in them when they hug, blocking out the rest of the word for a few, sweet moments. He helps the smaller hybrid clean and nourish his wings back to health. They sit on the bed together and Phil hums to him as he checks the bones in Quackity’s wings. They’re healing nicely, hurting less each day. His right wing has even started responding to muscle movement again. 

Yet, the process is still slow. He has to stretch his wings everyday, get them back into use. They ache near constantly, and he often wonders if it’s even worth it. It may be better if they just gave up, amputate his wings. He’d be flightless for the rest of his life, anyway. Why save the things that have caused him so much pain?

He doesn’t voice these thoughts to his outspoken friends, though. Philza is constantly complimenting his wings when they groom, telling him about the tiny, golden feathers hidden beneath the yellow-white hues. He even lets Quackity pet his own dark wings. He notices how Phil’s wings have purple and blue tones hidden in them, like polished obsidian. The smaller hybrid finds himself wondering how Phil can compliment his wings when his own are so gorgeous.

Techno thinks his wings are fantastic. 

The pig is quiet at first, distant and sarcastic. He smirks at Quackity smugly whenever he’s being an idiot, quips out mild remarks to get under his feathers. There’s still an air of calm around him, never purposely mean or rude, a calming presence. He also has taken to helping Quackity groom his wings when Phil’s out.

Phil told him that he needs to groom his wings daily, or as close to daily as possible. He said that-especially with the icy environment around them-his feathers would grow wrong otherwise. Quackity scowls when he hears this, but Techno seems elated. He hears a happy little huff escape the man before he can hold it, and it makes him feel a bit better. As long as one of them is enjoying it.

It’s not that it hurts to groom his wings or anything. On the contrary, it feels really nice, and its one of the few times he’s been intimate with anyone in his life. It just takes so damn long. Longer then he wants to be still for.

His wings aren’t particularly large, sure, but they fluff a lot easier then Phil’s do. The older told him that it’s because they’re different wing types, and Quackity has naturally softer and fuzzier wings. They pick up dust and grime easily, while things just slide off of Phil’s wings like constant water runs through them.

Quackity sits on his bed. They’d spent a few days making him his own room, much to his dismay. Now it would just be rude to leave, right?

He still feels a bit guilty, though. He doesn’t go outside often because he hate the cold, and Techno told him about all the mobs around. He feels like a freeloader, and even when he tries to cook and help out, everything goes wrong.

_ (“What is that supposed to be? Did you get us more coal?” _

_ Quackity glares down at the charred creation he’d spent the past three hours on. _

_ “Bread. I was making bread.” _

_ “Oh.” _

_ Techno snorts as he hangs his head in shame. He can hear Phil trying desperately not to laugh behind them. He feels like the scum of the earth.) _

The door creaks, and he’s immediately on alert. Despite Phil’s consistent reassurance that no one can find them out here, much less get in without a key, it freaks him out. His face twists as he remembers a time Techno had come behind him too fast and he’d physically flinched back in response. Techno had just“hm”d at him and walked off, leaving the flustered bird to wallow in self-hatred. The fear he feels is stupid, pathetic, really.

No voice calls to him from downstairs, meaning it’s not Phil who entered. Everytime the older hybrid enters the house a cheerful shout follows, often accompanied by a light trill. Quackity is still learning how to make “bird noises” like Phil does. It’s fascinating, these things about himself that he’d never explored before.

Technos head peaks from the trapdoor, and he’s jolted from his thoughts. Seeing that he’s awake, the boar pulls himself all the way into the attic room.

The room is small-ish, he likes it that way. The bed is crammed into the corner, along with a nightstand, the rest of the space filled with chests and random shit he’d picked up. Phil had given him four blankets, which he is infinitely grateful for. His odd little half-nest is shoved on top of his bed, yet another instinct he hadn’t known about himself before now.

Techno gives him a gentle bump to his forehead with his own. It’s an (honestly adorable) little greeting Techno likes to do now that he’s more comfortable around him. Quackity attempts that trilling noise Phil makes in return, but it comes out wheezy and awkward. He flushed slightly. Every mistake he makes with these things is horribly embarrassing. He’s a hybrid, this should come naturally to him!

But the boar-man just chuckles slightly, bumping him again and giving his arm a light squeeze. 

“You’ll get there, birdy.”

Quackity melts. Techno has this magical way of always making him feel better, making him preen at praise and stand just slightly taller. He watches the other slide back down the ladder. Techno pauses about halfway down, then his ears are sticking back through the entrance again.

“‘M gonna make soup.” His eyes bore into Quackity, who gives him a quizzical look.

“O-K...? Thank you...?” 

The annoyed huff he gets in response makes him cringe inwardly. Had he fucked up again?

“Wanna help? You’d uh, learn something, I guess.”

“ _Oh_!”

Quackity is scrambling to his feet as fast as possible. He wanted to hang out! Like actually be around him!

They make their way down the ladders and into the warm kitchen. 

It’s simple, a small well-lit room with a couple countertops and an oven. He’s immediately sitting on one of those countertops once they enter. The cabinets that hold their ingredients are a bit too high for Quackity, so he watches as Techno collects the things they need. Broth, meat, potatoes.

Basic, maybe, but delicious once fully done. 

Techno hands him a potato and a small knife. He holds them gently, honestly a tad nervous around the sharp blade. He watches the other hybrid reach into an ice chest and pull out the meat.

He assumes that Techno wants him to peel and cut the potatoes. Sure, he can do that. He’s cooked before, when he wasn’t stealing or just eating things raw. (He’s made himself sick multiple times by eating mostly-raw meat when he was alone. No lessons were learned, if he were alone again he’d still be doing it.)

He’s slow and clumsy, fingers contorting and trying not to kill himself with the blade. The beginnings of a peeled potato start, but he’s taken a lot of flesh with the skin. He tries again, getting a little better, but still far from perfect. He’s also nearly positive this isn’t how you’re supposed to hold a knife, especially with the way it pulls towards his face with every slice he makes. 

Quackity can hear Techno behind him, pots clanging slightly as he puts bone broth on to boil. He wonders out loud if it’s possible to burn liquids.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

He lets his wing flick out and hit Techno in the face. The boar just laughs and runs a hand through his extended wing, and Quackity’s irritation is immediately forgotten.  _ That just isn’t fair. _

He watches Technos ears flick a few times as he eats. It’s strange, being around other hybrids. Especially when they behave so differently. He’s curious if those ears are like his wings, and can feel things in them. An earring has been put through his left ear, so maybe they have less nerves? The tail that extends from the mans spine is a curiosity as well. It flicks like his ears do, sometimes expressing an emotion he can’t sense on Technos face.

“What?”

He meets Technos eyes, noticing that he’d been slowly leaning in to look closer at the man. Quackity pulls away, embarrassed.

“Mm. Nothing, sorry. I was just thinking about something and I got distracted and I didn’t even notice so like-“

“MmK.”

Techno knows that the bird rambles all the time, but it gets especially bad when he’s anxious. He eyes Quackity warily as he eats. He trusts the other, sure, but he doesn’t like not knowing what he’s thinking. Especially since it seemed to be something about him.

Quackity is close again in just a few minutes, studying Techno. The boar huffs sharply at him, and again he retreats.

“Jus’ say it.”

Q stays silent, stares at the wall and clamps his stupid mouth shut. 

“Or do what you want to do. I don’t mind either way, I guess.”

Techno hadn’t meant it as a go ahead, but Quackity takes it that way. He reaches up to the boar, watches him tense slightly. His fingertips gently run over the edge of his ears, which twitch at his touch. A little sigh escapes Techno, realizing his intentions. 

Quackity runs his fingers over his ear, finding the meeting point between ear and neck. He rubs there, curious. Will The Great Technoblade have a dog-like reaction, or stare at him like he’s crazy?

“Quackity.”

He’s snapped back to attention. A flush has risen on Technos face, and he tilts slightly into the touch. He’s smiles at the subtle gesture, continuing his movements. A small whine leaves his throat when Q pulls away slightly.

“Can I keep doing this? Is it bothering you or anything?”

“Clearly isn’t.”

Techno pushes his head back down towards his hand. Quackity complies, scratching behind his ears again and leaning closer. He’s warm, huffing softly as the movements continue, pliant to Quackitys touch. He’s probably never been this vulnerable before, this open with someone.

Impulsively, Quackity leans forward. He kisses Technos ear gently, then kisses his neck before he realizes what he’s doing. He yanks his head back, and wide red eyes mimic his own expression, staring back at him.

“I-I’m sorry I don’t- I just was thinking again and-“

“Quackity, what are you ‘thinking’ about that makes you kiss me?”

“I didn’t kiss you! I kissed your ear!”

“That’s the same thing!”

Quackity sputters, hand still on Technos ear even as he argues about the affectionate actions.

“Quackity, really, just admit that it happened and move on.”

“Wha-but I kissed you? What do you mean move on, I _kissed_ you!”

“Yeah?”

Techno looks at him, confused. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to the boar hybrid? Maybe he didn’t take it in a romantic way?

Somehow, that stings a bit.

“Yeah.”

He settles himself again. Techno snorts at his sudden docile behavior, grabs another bowl of soup instead.

Quackity eats in contemplative silence. Why had he kissed Techno?

He barely even registers the touch of lips to his cheek, which is followed by another, and another. He finally notices when a slight sigh brushes his ear, and the tusks that poke from Technos lips graze his neck. A shiver rushes through him. His hand raises to meet the others ears again, this time gently tugging them to get his attention.

“What’re you doing?”

“Mm. Kiss.”

It’s mumbled, at this point Techno’s face presses into Quackity’s neck, lips brushing skin when he speaks. Another shiver runs through his body. It’s warm, sweet and oddly comforting. 

“Why, though?”

Another huff rushes over his skin, followed by yet another kiss. He lets himself lean into this one, pushing against the warm lips and soft touches, breathy sighs. Techno curls closer as he speaks again.

“Dunno, wanna.”

“Weirdo.”

“Shu’up, dumbass bird.”

“Pig-boy.”

“‘M not even a pig.”

A little fit of giggles erupts between the two, and he feels the rumbles of Technos laugh in his own chest. He’s pulled in closer, closer. He allows himself to be pulled onto the boars lap this time, warm hands wriggling up and into his wings, soothing him further. He finds himself responding, tugging lightly at the ears nestled in pink hair, kissing the mans jawline. 

“Could y’all not fuck on my couch, please?”

This time Techno is not so delicate with Quackity. He’s shoved onto the floor, which, yeah, that’s totally not suspicious.

Phil stands in the doorway, smirk painted on his face. He looks unbearably smug, and Quackity prays that he’ll just melt into the floor.

“Sweeter then I thought, I guess!”

Techno groans loudly, shoving off the couch and into his room.

_ (Quackity would join him later, after Phil went to bed, just to cuddle and whisper about stupid bullshit until they fell asleep.) _

**Author's Note:**

> I high-key love Techno/Quackity dynamics, and we need some more hybrid fics. Please, I'm begging you for more hybrid content. Inspired by @eatenpicklestick 's story "I fell down to earth" GO READ IT IT'S SO GOOD >:)  
> Please leave a comment! I try to respond to every one, and they motivate me a lot :D


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